


a little death

by thepurplewombat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, No consent issues, Sherlock is a vampire, Vamplock, a smidge of telepathy, basically this is unrepentant vampire porn, because Sherlock is not a mind-control kind of vampire, vampires get high off blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat
Summary: Before John, I hated feeding. I would delay and delay and delay, until my pale skin turned grey and my too-thin face turned skeletal, until even Lestrade flinched from the red glow in my pupils and my teeth began to misbehave, until I found myself staring at Anderson’s throat and licking my lips. It wasn’t that I was I didn’t want to feed. I wanted to, god, I needed to, and I loved everything about it, except what came after. It was…unbearable. The heightened senses, the visceral awareness. The need to touch, almost as urgent as the need for blood, that came upon me; the euphoria that left me empty and aching and alone, shaking myself to pieces in an empty bed with every inch of my skin screaming for something I couldn’t put a name to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay look so there was this post about how the promo pics for the pilot looked like a vampire romance and I was like oh! now I have an idea. And so I banged (heh) this out in like, an hour while sitting in my office, in between my boss coming in to bitch about someone stealing the sugar, and editing some truly amazingly bad articles. Basically this fic redeemed my day.
> 
> Please note that this story contains blood. Because Sherlock is a vampire. There is blood.

Before John, I hated feeding. I would delay and delay and delay, until my pale skin turned grey and my too-thin face turned skeletal, until even Lestrade flinched from the red glow in my pupils and my teeth began to misbehave, until I found myself staring at Anderson’s throat and licking my lips. It wasn’t that I was I didn’t want to feed. I wanted to, _god,_ I needed to, and I loved everything about it, except what came after. It was…unbearable. The heightened senses, the visceral awareness. The need to touch, almost as urgent as the need for blood, that came upon me; the euphoria that left me empty and aching and alone, shaking myself to pieces in an empty bed with every inch of my skin screaming for something I couldn’t put a name to.

It’s different now, now that there is John. Now, I can hardly wait to finish the case so that I can feed. I can wait, though. I make myself wait.

So when we reach the door to 221B, much as I’d like to, I don’t run straight to the refrigerator, I don’t guzzle down a pint of blood and glut myself on John, on his skin and his touch and his living breathing presence (although I have, in the past, and will again). Instead, I strip myself, revealing my milk-pale skin to his watching eyes, and run a bath. I want to be clean for him. There are candles, and so I light them, admiring the golden highlights they bring to my marble flesh, and I lean back, letting the water seep its warmth into my cool skin.

I’m not entirely surprised when John gently shoulders open the door after a few minutes, both his hands on a tray. On the tray, there are the elegant lines of a decanter, and a single large glass winking rainbow reflections from its cut-glass facets. He doesn’t speak, as he sets the tray down on the counter, as he pours the ruby-winking blood into the glass for me. He smiles, as I reach out a languid hand to accept it, and there’s something mischievous in his eyes that I don’t _–oh._

_Oh._ Everything becomes clear the moment the blood touches my mouth. His smile, his eyes, _his blood in my mouth_ oh god. I moan as his flavours spread out on my tongue, warmsafeteagun _home_. He tastes of spring mornings I barely remember, of sunrises and beautiful things. I stare at him as I taste him, and I am…overwhelmed. That he would do this for me, that he would do _this_. For me.

And then he wets a washcloth and doesn’t speak as he runs it down my body, and it’s as though the heat from the water has taken up residence in my very core. I drain the glass, he pours me another, and I drain that too. I can feel him settling into my body, reactivating my quiescent cells with his essence, I can feel him bringing me to life even as his hands move over my slow-warming skin, the palest hint of a blush staining my skin now. So it begins.

By the time he helps me from the bath and dries me with exquisite care, I am…I am floating high above myself and I’ve never been more connected to my body, both at the same time, and his every touch overwhelms me. His hand on my elbow sends sparks skittering up and down my arm, raises gooseflesh on the back of my neck, makes my eyes fall half-closed with desire.

I am limp and languid as he steers me to my bedroom, and I fall in slow-motion to my bed, landing sprawled and staring, dark-eyed up at him as he sheds his clothes. I know that he loves me like this – he loves me every way, languid and dreamy-eyed in his bed or wrapped up and icy, he loves me loves me loves me but this, this is special, this is _his_ , and he loves that he has me like this. I raise both hands to him, a supplicant, and breathe his name, and he comes to me, fitting his warm naked body against mine, and every point of contact is a blazing fire within me, my sensitive skin reacting to his.

I make a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and he kisses my bloody mouth, and I cry out and shudder against him as he licks his own blood out of my mouth oh _God_ , I can’t bear it, I could stay like this forever. He kisses my face and my cheeks and my neck, and I raise my chin to let him kiss me there, on my long neck that he loves so much (the long and tempting curve that cost me my mortality, two hundred years and more ago) and moan and moan and moan, because every _touch_ overwhelms, every breath he exhales against my skin makes me shake and shudder, and if I were a mortal man I would be coming right now, just from this.

But I am not a mortal man, and so John takes his devotion southward, trailing fire across my chest, across my nipples which peak for him, begging for his mouth, which he bestows in abundance. He trails kisses along my inner arms and suckles on the tender inside of my wrist, and I make a wailing sound that’s almost a sob, because I am burning up, I am made up of desire and smoke, and there is nothing in the world but John.

His hand roams across my stomach leaving trails of fire in its wake, and I part my legs for him, begging, begging, until he dips between my thighs to press a single finger to my entrance, sending lighting up my spine and making me gasp.

“God, Sherlock,” he moans, wanting me, wanting to be inside me, and I flail frantically (ungracefully) for the bedside drawer, but then my hand is shaking too much to actually grasp anything, and he stills me with a kiss that leaves me breathless and gasping, shaking myself apart with the sheer force of my desire in a bed that is not empty at all. If I were a mortal man, I would ask to fuck him, I would push myself inside of him until he cried out with pleasure, and I would leave traces of myself inside him forever.

But I am not a mortal man, so John takes the lube from my shaking hands and keeps one hand over my unbeating heart, as I gasp for breath I don’t need (except I do need it, need the oxygen like a drug, or so my brain keeps telling me) and open my legs so he can settle between them.

“John, please,” I say, and my voice makes him shudder, the deep rough silk of it, wrecked on the altar of John Watson, made rough with desire, with its inhuman harmonics filled to the brim with _wanting_. He pets my thigh with one hand and with the other, with the other-

With the other hand, he rubs around my entrance, cool-slick with lube, presses inside and makes me cry out. One finger, at first, and my entire being narrows down to that one digit, moving inside me, setting me on fire. One becomes two becomes three, and by the time he pulls them out and leaves me gaping and unfilled I am sweating and crying, blood seeping from my skin and veiling my vision with red, leaving smears and streaks on the bedding. I am a creature of scarlet and marble now, nothing left of me but aching, unfilled desire.

John does not put his lips to my skin again – if he tried, I like to believe I would be strong enough to stop him – but his hands roam everywhere, as he folds me up, as he gathers up my hands and folds them around my knees so that I am holding myself open for him, as he leans forward and presses a single closed-mouth kiss to my bottom lip.

When the blunt head of his cock breaches me I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from screaming. I am invaded, I am _claimed_ , ruined and undone by the touch of John’s hands, by his skin against mine. It’s the best high I have ever experienced, better than cocaine, better than heroin, and I can’t imagine ever not needing this with every fibre of my being, now that I’ve had it.

“God, Sherlock, you-“ he says and presses in, _in_ , until I can feel him in the core of me, and I beg and beg and beg until he presses my knees back and fucks into me _hard_ , whiting out my vision on every stroke of his cock inside me. I can feel him inside me, feel the clench of my muscles around him, feel his pleasure building with the force of his thrusts until I am forced to fumble both hands up to clutch the headboard before my head hits it. Every thrust _, every movement_ , is like a little death, sending white sheets of lightning sparking across my eyes, and I am crying out more or less continuously now, jerking and spasming around him with more pleasure than a mortal body could survive.

His desire and mine are entwined now, my mind opening to his even as my body does. I am both fucking and fucked, in this moment, I am John and myself, penetrating and penetrated, and when John finally, _finally_ comes, with a cry that sounds almost painful, I can feel him flood me with his hot essence, fiery inside my room-temperature body, and I stiffen and arc against him and scream as his pleasure takes me by storm.

He collapses on top of me, breathing hard, glistening with sweat, laughing slightly. I want to keep him like this forever, naked and sweaty and in my bed, laughing and reminding me that though I may not be mortal, I am still alive.

All too soon, we will need to get up. John needs a shower – I need a shower, come to think of it. The sheets will need to be…quite possibly burned. Again. There are things to do, important things, but right now? With John in my arms, warm against my skin, his beating heart sounding in my ears?

Right now, I honestly couldn’t care less.


End file.
